logikal’s blog

Just Pigs

If I have the Time

And you tend to list

In other words,

Acquire an inclination

Play Clementine, let’s say

Walk the chalk line

With whiskey

Kiss me-

And say all is fine…

Just get the inclination

Loaded with the lore

And dreams that burst

At the seams

And be tipsy

That rhymes…

With gypsy

You know the rules in this game

We live in places without a name

And we drink and look into the eyes

And dream up new, brand new lies

Witches brew

Mainly you

And you lips pucker and say

Swine

Be mine

Even if it is my poems

It isn’t me…

Eh Piggess?

It moves sometimes, sometimes it just remains moored as
if in thought

People walk in, people move in on beds of flowers and
tears

Ceremony, the faces of companions that walk out show
relief

Their job done, not too keen to return, memories of the
soul just gone

Torments perhaps, this boat sails the river of
forgetfulness

Me? I watch from the shores, biding my time,

The fare here is like a moth’s dream

In transition, born, then becoming unborn…

In the morning of Time, then noon, then the ship sailed

With it load of embers, graves and silence of the Evening
that we all will face

Do you see that dragonfly perched on the boat’s deck?

All the sunlight and Darkness measure up to nothing on
its thin wings

The boat of have-nots never sounds its horns

Nor does the Captain ever show his face, I imagine He
just has scorn…

A View From The Strand

At a loss for words, we just stare hard- staring into the darkness ahead. We think and begin the dialog, of a silent sparring diligence of wondering, who spills his or her thoughts- a void, a chasm that yawns in drunken stupor.
A naked thought escapes, we grin. It walks past us…
Contact begins. We smile- we touch.
Like always, we do that. We wonder, naively agape.
“What shall we do?” we timidly laugh.
Another wasted moment. More follow.
The river has a tug boat receding downstream.
A poem begins in the murmurs of the wavelets… and the musk in the breeze waves semaphores.

OBLIVION

-I-

It was time I sought amid my memories

Quantum

A packet of thought, wrapped in oil paper

And sealed, tucked away,

A lost meandering neurotic lark

In a forest where nothing stirred

Like autumn, overcast, slowly drizzling

I tried to say something, my lips stilled,

Crisply held back, watching the sepia bloom hues

I tried then the words cloaked

In sweet ochre glow

And whatever was it that I wanted to say

to the world- it had gone away

Autumn gave way to winter,

The folds inside the labyrinth,

Perhaps the beginning of oblivion

In a wrapper, waiting for eons

Missing, unseen, those myriad unknown

Rows upon rows,

The past unopened

Or forever closed!

-II-

Oblivion

Vision

Sans sight,

A forever night

In a catacomb

Walking memories

Neurons afloat

Sparkling exchanges

Thoughts

Seeking bodies

Lost in transience

The ephemeral’s finale

Music spoke

In a winter of silence

Oblivion!

The wind just rose.
The wind began a sing song, a tale of something distant.
Something- a brilliance somewhere, beyond where I would chance upon, a thing, of my own. Mine for ever.
The rain had stopped just five minutes ago. I barely could hear the cicadas. There was a thought, uppermost in my mind. How do I break the news to myself?
My mind said here and here and here, I had touched… and then, came in the mist. The wind had stopped.

The rain spoke first!

To a beautiful, sensuous woman
As I think she is on the wrong side of the high seas
Then what are you? She asked me- “A poet?”
I admitted “I am a words man, you can safely bet!”
She said- “I don’t trust you”
Well, I said that is evident, and true
I added “We are the ephemeral guys
We sometimes make up, and always lie”

Then she offered me a knowing look,
Would I take a little beer in the café nook?
I have alcohol, no blood flows
In my veins, everyone knows
Now I liked that,
You speak- I speak, yes, and think, what to say
Then to stop midway
Speak of something you like?
Let me guess, waiting to strike…

Things poets say
To those transient waves
That walk around, pirouette
Strut or glide,
Those flowers,
Lazy hours
To the beautiful blue eyes
To the flutter, the sighs

Oh, the Muse, she mustn’t know…

The wind fluttered. Miss Beaufort waltzed! The rain danced with thoughts of romance!

You know- I like to draw
Or sketch, just as I saw
Very often a woman’s face
Before it grew a body for solace
Soon I know, she would be Venus
Modest, blushing- or turning to dust
Her hair making waves in the wind
Flowers on her dress sequined
Shy at the kisses to her, curls
Over her eyes closing the world…
I would then draw a bearded face,
A banjo in his hands
Serenading her
And soon I add people
Clapping
As she takes to wings
Her hair in the wind,
A hand across her chest,
A stole over her secrets
And a song on the tormentor’s lips-
He serenades, a heady wine she sips
With his heart on song,
As the sunset prolongs,
Slowly, the maiden would cry enough,
Go away- let me hide in the wind aloft
And the wind would now bring leaves
Brush them up
Make a small hut
An arch over her head
And the singer would still sing
You know,
He is blind!

On a white canvas
We see mist
A dream rests
Waiting the pencil lines
The mood settles
On the easel!

There was the moon. Past seven, it was an awakening. The universe spoke.
As the wind again walked in, a zephyr, with a strand of desire! Satyr awoke. The music wafted in.
She was nineteen.